On a Sinking Ship
by kiwipixel77
Summary: Isabela, the master of sex, learns a lesson in love from Hawke. Rated M for somewhat-explicit sexual content, fluffiness, and a slightly drunk Hawke. One-shot.


**A/N: Hello readers! Hope everyone is doing fine. Here's a brand new story for you all!**

**Ok. So there's a story behind this story, and this is it:**

**My Xbox finally died last night. Yep. It got the red ring of death. I am devastated. Honestly. I've had it for five years and we've had a good run, but I'm not sure I'll get a new one because I'm cheap and in uni and blah blah blah... **

**So, fast forward, say, an hour, and I'm sitting at my computer, practically drowning in rage and sadness and so many other emotions and then this thing was produced. I have no idea where my mind goes sometimes, but I found out where it goes in complete and utter devastation. Here. Apparently it thinks of fluffiness and love and sex and gaaah. Sorry. I'm still dying.**

**So this story does indeed have a sex scene. It's not too graphic, though, and there's a point to the story. It's not pwp. But DO NOT READ if you are underage! Please! I'm giving you fair warning!**

**I was too lazy to come up with another Hawke character, so I just kept the one from my story The Thing You Fear The Most. This story is in no way affiliated with that one. I just used the same character. So if he seems familiar, that's why (minus the whole paralysed thing). And this takes place sometime before the Qunari attack Kirkwall, and after Act 1.**

**I am going to regret this tomorrow. I'm sure of it.**

**Enjoy! And don't forget to review with any thoughts/criticism/whatever!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age, Bioware, or anything associated with the company or franchise. If I did, I'd have enough to buy a new Xbox. Many of them. In fact, I probably wouldn't even be in school. **

**Long A/N is long. Sorry.**

**P.S. I promise this will never happen again. **

**P.S.S. The horrible story, I mean. Not the long Author's Note. Nope. I'm terrible for that.**

* * *

Isabela had been watching Hawke for what felt like _hours_. Her legs were cramping from sitting in the same position, and the sun had gone down, limiting her view. The air had turned chilly, and it was only a matter of time before the insects came out in droves.

But she didn't mind. Not at all. Hawke was attending the Viscount's semi-annual ball, and, as usual, the pirate had secretly tagged along to watch the spectacle unfold. She was sitting on the flat rooftops of the building next to the Keep, and had an almost perfect overhead view into the hall below. She rather enjoyed spying on Hawke, catching glimpses of his life while he was not skewering Qunari with his daggers or getting drunk with her in The Hanged Man.

The Keep was decorated, unsurprisingly, with the most lavish Orlesian silks in the deepest reds and palest yellows, with clearly expensive crystal chandeliers and statues, and the most extravagant and largest cutlery collection the pirate had ever seen. And she'd seen a lot of them.

The place was crawling with haughty noblewomen dressed in the most gaudy and poofy embroidered dresses with large bows and ribbons. The men were hardly better. Most had dreadful high-collared felt vests and those awful baggy pants with high furry boots to complete their pompous image.

And, perhaps worse than their attire, if one could believe it, was their behaviour. All were feigning civility and respect to one another. The pirate had just witnessed a trio of young noblewomen flatter and gawk to another woman, complimenting her dress, though as soon as she had left, the women turned to each other and clearly gossiped about how ugly she was, or how out of style her clothing was, or other such nonsense. Triviality seeped from the hall of the Keep like the stench of vile ale did from The Hanged Man.

But not Hawke. He was wearing a loose-fitting white chemise with a tighter black sleeveless waistcoat and a pair of simple black hoses to match. It looked as if he had cleaned himself up, and Isabela could see that he had attempted to tame the unruly short hair on his head, but to no avail. He looked out of place, but oddly noble-like. _And handsome._ Surely he had noticed the glances he was receiving from the young women present. Though perhaps they were more astonished that the peculiar, enigmatic, refugee-turned-nobleman had even shown up at the event at all. He was well-known for his strange taste in friends and his tendency to get involved in matters entirely not his own. He just wasn't one to attend such occasions. But here he was, and he was taking the event by storm.

From her perch Isabela could easily observe as Hawke fluidly moved around the great hall. One moment he was chatting up a couple of blushing older ladies by the refreshment table, and not a moment later he was asking some young flustered woman for a dance, swirling, to the surprise of all, elegantly around the dance floor as hushed words were being exchanged by all those watching. Before the pirate could find him amongst the crowd of dancers, he'd taken off and was clearly in a deep debate with a group of older, fatter, moustached Orlesians, perhaps discussing the differences in the political regime of The Free Marches and Orlais.

She shook her head in amusement and gave a light chuckle. She had to hand it to him – he knew how to win people over.

She had lost sight of him again, and had been scanning the crowds of powdered wigs and wool gowns for a few minutes before she heard a low voice behind her.

"Isabela, I didn't know you were one for such events. If you _really_ wanted to come you could have just asked me."

She turned to look at her company and couldn't help but smile as she took in Hawke's slender form.

"Trying to sneak up on a rogue, Hawke? Most unwise. You of all people should know better," she tutted in amusement as he sauntered across to her and took a seat beside her. She straightened up and pulled her legs close to her chest, resting her arms on her knees. He copied her.

She had no idea how he managed to slip unnoticed from the ball and scale up the side of the building in under a few minutes. It didn't surprise her, though. Hawke was crafty and cunning and hands-down the best rogue she'd ever met. Excluding herself, of course.

"Oh, no, not at all. I'm well aware how treacherous we can be. Especially the larcenous pirates," he teased, giving her a roguish grin.

"Those are big words, Hawke. But they won't save you from getting a pirate's dagger wedged between your ribs."

He threw his head back and laughed then, and she couldn't help thinking that he looked so much younger when there was real amusement on his face. Not that devious grin he so often wore for every occasion.

"Well, being around such interesting and well-educated individuals as these, you tend to pick up on their habits. I guess their love of large and often-misused words has rubbed off on me."

"Just don't start marching around Lowtown in that god-awful garb, whatever you do."

"Ha! No worries there, m'lady. I much prefer my blood-spattered leathers and my daggers to the vests and trinkets. Although," he said slowly, "perhaps I could use that to my benefit. Do you think Qunari and blood mages would be so quick to smite a lost nobleman and his squires who happened to wander into their camp? I think it could give us an advantage. I daresay we look too suspicious dressed in armour and running at them, weapons drawn."

Isabela shook her head in mock perplexity. Her friend could be so odd at times.

"I'm not sure how Qunari and mages would react, but I saw how the women were down there." She nodded her head in the direction of the ball. He followed her gaze, watching the men and women on the dancefloor. She looked back to him and watched him for a moment, smiling.

"You look nice tonight, Hawke. Handsome, I daresay." There was jest in her tone, but she meant it nonetheless.

He glanced up at her and smiled.

"What, this?" he shrugged. "This is nothing. Just threw this together. I was tempted to leave my armour on, but mother _insisted _I at least look presentable. She even made me _bathe_. The nerve of that woman! 'Coldin, how in the Maker's name do you expect people to respect you if you insist on parading through the city dressed like a ruffian?'" His imitation of Leandra was eerily accurate, and Isabela couldn't stifle a laugh.

"Maker, I _hate_ it when she calls me that. 'Coldin'. What a stupid name." He looked over to his friend next to him, who was laughing louder now. A glint of irritation flickered in his eyes. "Do I _look_ like a Coldin? No. It's an old man's name. It's like an unfinished sentence. 'Coldin.' Cold in – where, exactly? Cold in where? Cold in the lake? Cold in the larder?"

Isabela had to take a moment to recover from her bought of laughter. She knew how Hawke hated his name, but every time he went on a rant like this it amused her greatly. Coldin really wasn't such a bad name. If she was honest, she sort of liked it. It was Ferelden and she'd never heard anything like it before. But Hawke still insisted on being called Hawke. It was _never_ Coldin.

When she could breathe again, she said "No, you ass, that's not what I meant. Although your clothes _do_ look better than the swill those noblemen are wearing." He raised his eyebrows. "I meant I can actually see your skin. It's not the shade of dirt and blood after all, I see." He looked down at his hands. She reached over and ruffled his short hair briefly before he ducked and swatted her hand away. "And there's no dust in your hair. You clean up well, _Messere_," she said, impressed.

He had his hand up to his head, trying to fix Isabela's ruffling, but to no avail.

"Yes, well, one hardly has time for hygiene while fixing all of Kirkwall's problems." He gave up with a sigh and leaned back, his hands on the roof behind him, supporting him.

They sat in amiable silence for a few moments, both looking out at the people and antics of the Viscount's ball.

Isabela was the first to speak.

"Why do you attend these events, Hawke? You hardly seem the type."

Hawke looked over to her, playfully offended. "And what does _that_ mean? Do I not look like I enjoy an occasional evening of proper dancing and intelligent debates with the objective nobles of this great city? These balls are _awfully_ exciting."

She gave him an indignant look.

He sighed and looked back to the Keep. There was no use lying to her. She could see right through him anyways. "Mother insists I attend. I think she's trying to get me to give up my wandering ways. She disapproves of my friends, you know." Isabela did know this. It was no secret how much Hawke's mother objected to her son fraternising with the lot of them.

"She believes I spend too much time at The Hanged Man and the Wounded Coast when I should be visiting our _lovely_ neighbours and investing in business. She seems to think I 'taint her image'. She likes to attend them, and life is immeasurably easier when Mother is happy. So every now and then I yield and accompany her. I could, of course, sit and pout in the corner, but I prefer to take advantage of the situation. I can be anyone there, Isabela! A prince, a diplomat, a refugee slash smuggler slash rogue! Though I personally prefer the last one. Maker, I hate this thing," he complained, leaning forward and unbuttoning his waistcoat.

Isabela also knew how harsh Hawke's mother could be. She had changed since they arrived fresh off the docks. She acted as though their life in Ferelden had never occurred; as though she had never left Kirkwall. And Isabela knew, as much as Leandra tried to hide it, that she put some blame on Hawke for Carver's and Bethany's deaths.

He shrugged out of his coat and threw it down beside him.

"Ah, that's better."

She glanced over to him and did a double take. _Andraste's tits_, did he ever look good. He had removed his waistcoat so all he had on was the loose white long-sleeved chemise. His untidy short brown hair, his clean skin, his light scruff, the way his bright sapphire eyes seemed to shine and stand out from his dark facial tattoos…

"…and she _insists_ on finding me a wife at one of these things. Like I'd want to settle down with one of those pompous airheads. I don't know why she-"

Isabela stirred from her daydreaming at the mention of 'wife' and interrupted him.

"Hold on. She wants you to _marry_?"

Hawke eyed her suspiciously. "That's what I said. Weren't you listening?"

No. No, she was most _definitely_ not.

She ignored the question. "Why?"

"I was just discussing that as well. Are you feeling all right, Isabela? Normally you're on top of the conversation." He reached over and placed the back of his hand on her forehead. Her heart fluttered at the unexpected contact.

She huffed indifferently, swatting him away. "Of course I'm all right. Why does Leandra want you to marry?" she pressed.

Hawke shrugged. "No idea. I don't even pretend to understand what goes on in that woman's mind. Though I suspect it's another of her ploys to get me to smarten up and act the part of 'Messere Amell'." He said the name with a slight sneer. "A wife and a few brats running around would most definitely put an end to our adventures."

Isabela pictured Hawke and some nameless pretty noblewoman sitting around the table at the Amell mansion, eyeing each other with such love and care as their numerous children ran around them, laughing and playing games, all having his bright blue eyes. She could see Leandra sitting there too, looking around her with smug satisfaction, clearly happy that the Amell name would continue. It was a sickening image.

She felt a pang of jealousy at the thought, much to her surprise. Sure, she had thought Hawke to be good-looking, handsome at times (such as now), and had, on occasion, pictured herself with him. Kissing him, running her hands over his body, looking up as he called her name in the throes of their passionate sex. She had an active imagination, much to Varric's delight, but to her chagrin had never experienced it for herself. Hawke seemed immune to her advances, and would always redirect the conversation elsewhere, or respond with a snarky comment. Over time, she simply gave up trying to get in his pants, and spent more time in his company. She realised she liked him, and the two had grown near inseparable as the years rolled by. They understood each other, and had an odd ability to detect any distresses and comfort the other with few words where their sarcasm and flippancy had no place.

She knew him well, perhaps even more so than he did himself, and she had no doubts he knew parts of her she hadn't yet discovered.

And she knew their friends, and perhaps most of Kirkwall, thought that they indeed shared the bed, at least at times. How could they refuse each other after nearly three years of close companionship? The pirate was well-known and somewhat proud of her bedroom antics and excessive variety of partners, and there was simply no way that Hawke could decline her.

But he had. And this is what frustrated her more than anything. Sex was merely an act, an enjoyable one, done to ease the pain and stresses from everyday life. Hawke, of all people, deserved to escape the ache of hard work. She could not understand why he refused to sleep with her. Or anyone, for that matter. She knew if he ever did that she'd be the first one he'd go to, explaining it all in detail as she laughed and gave him suggestions for next time. But he never came to her. There was no way he could last so long without caving. He was either lying to her or was afraid of something. She really didn't care if he had other lovers, but it hurt her slightly that he didn't feel he could discuss it with her.

She had buried her desires and taken other lovers and accepted her friend for who he was long ago.

So she was startled when she felt a twinge of jealousy at the thought of Hawke marrying. She was _not_ one to settle down or even tie herself to others. No, she didn't wish to marry Hawke. But she did desire to know why he used to deny her, and hearing Leandra's plans for him had dug up some old longings and questions.

She laughed. "It most definitely would, Hawke. And I don't think I'd enjoy babysitting your little devils. So please don't settle down any time soon."

He laughed in return, and she couldn't help noticing how his eyes sparkled as he did so.

"Don't worry, Isabela. I have no plans to abandon you all for the _exciting_ life of a stuffy noble husband."

"Good," she replied, and the two friends lapsed into another comfortable silence.

She thought again of Hawke and sex and suddenly realised how absurd the short, lean Hawke would seem as a husband and father. She laughed out loud, breaking the silence.

He glanced over to her. "What?" he asked with a hint of amusement.

"Oh nothing. I was just picturing you trying to take care of a child. You can hardly take care of yourself."

"Hey!" he said, and playfully punched her shoulder. "You're probably right," he admitted, and the two of them laughed easily, happy and comfortable in the company of each other.

"Oh! I almost forgot," Hawke managed in between bouts of Isabela's laughter. He reached to his side and seemingly from nowhere pulled out a small bottle of some expensive-looking wine.

Isabela sobered up and snatched the bottle from him, looking intensively at the labels. She gasped.

"No way! This can't be!" She looked up to a smiling Hawke. "This is Deacon Isles! From Rivain! How did you-"

"You only mention how it's the best wine in all of Thedas every night at The Hanged Man. I saw it there, sitting all alone, and thought it needed a certain pirate and refugee to accompany it."

She smiled widely, clearly flattered that he remembered her while flitting around the ball.

She leaned over and put her arm around his shoulder while the other held the bottle.

"You really are the greatest, Hawke."

"I know," he replied smugly.

She squeezed him and let go. "Well, let's get this thing open, shall we? It hasn't come all the way from my homeland to sit here and listen to us gawk!"

He agreed, and opened the bottle for her, and they took turns sipping from it for the next hour or so, discussing the pettiness of nobles, the seemingly unending list of chores Hawke had to do, and a myriad of other subjects less important and quickly forgotten.

The wine was so good, Isabela thought. She hadn't tasted Deacon Isles in such a long count of years. Not since she managed to steal a bottle right from the cellar of the royal palace in Denerim with the aid of a certain elven assassin. She wasn't normally partial to wine, preferring instead the harsher rum and brandy of The Hanged Man, but this one was an exception. It not only tasted remarkable, it was much stronger than most other wines. It was ridiculously expensive, though, and nearly impossible to get.

She often joked it was the only thing she missed about Rivain. Well, that and the access to very large, very expensive ships, ripe for the taking.

The small bottle was nearly finished and she and Hawke were inebriated. Well, Hawke more so than her. Many years of drinking heavily had somewhat hardened her to the effects of alcohol, and she needed much more of it to feel drunk nowadays. She was only slightly tipsy, and he was well into the giggling stage.

Yes, Coldin Hawke was a silly drunk.

"There's _no way_, Isabela! You're lying!" he accused, words slurring slightly. His face was faintly red and patchy from the growing cold and the effects of the alcohol.

The alleged feigned hurt upon hearing his words. "Hawke, now _why_ would you say that? I've never done anything but tell the truth my entire life!"

He gave her the largest, most dramatic eyebrow raise and eye roll she had ever seen him make.

"Oh _sure_, and I bet you've also seen a Qunari's dick," he spat back. The pirate was a bit taken aback, but got over it quickly. Hawke rarely swore except when he was drunk. He paused and giggled when he realised what he said, but Isabela gave him an indignant look and he continued.

"There's _no_ way on Nirn you got Sebastian to do that! That's not even possible! You'd have to be, like, rich or something. And you're not, Isabela." Hawke raised his eyebrows again, this time in goading. "Or, no, wait," he corrected, raising his hand up. "Not rich. You'd need to get him really drunk. And you know he doesn't drink very much."

It was her turn to roll her eyes. "You _honestly_ don't think that the Choir boy wouldn't not sleep with me?" Hawke's smirk was wiped from his face and he screwed his brows in concentration, trying to comprehend what she had just said. A small smile played on her face and she turned her head to look up at the stars. "You know how irresistible I can be. Not even our dear Brother could say no."

Hawke hadn't really been listening. He grabbed for the bottle and swallowed the last bit of wine. Dread flowed through him. He eyed Isabela warily, but her gaze was in the sky.

"And he wasn't that hard to persuade, really. You know how much trouble he was in his youth. Just a mug of ale and few soft words is all it took," she drawled amusingly. Hawke said nothing. A few moments of silence passed before the pirate broke it with a sharp laugh.

"You know, back to what you said earlier - I _have_ in fact seen a Qunari naked. This one time in Orlais, by the Chantry. He was-" she was cut off there, and she whipped her head around as she'd heard the wine bottle's unmistakable 'clank of emptiness'.

Hawke had attempted, unsuccessfully, to set the empty bottle down on the roof without it making a noise while she was talking away about Qunari or Sebastian or something. She caught him, though, and he froze, fingers still around the bottle, eyes wide in fear.

"Hawke," she started slowly. He dared not move. "Did you just drink the last bit of wine from the bottle of Deacon Isles? _My_ _last_ bottle of Deacon Isles? Perhaps _the_ last bottle of Deacon Isles in Kirkwall? Maybe the Free Marches?"

He swallowed, genuine fear in his eyes.

"Ah…. No."

"You shit! You drank the last of my wine!" She reached over to punch his arm, but he dodged her blow and she lost her balance, falling on her side. This just made her angrier.

She stretched her arm out quickly towards him, flailing around somewhat pathetically, but only managing to poke him with her finger feebly in his side.

The result, however was totally unexpected.

His whole body tensed up and he gasped deeply, flinching away from her like a young schoolgirl shying from a frog.

No. There was no way.

Hawke saw the mischievous glint in her eye as realisation dawned on her. His eyes widened in horror as he watched her ready herself into position, looking like a cat about to pounce on it's prey. And that's exactly what she did.

She tackled him, throwing him down onto his side, ferociously tickling his ribs as he practically screamed at her to stop. He tried to wriggle free, but she pinned him down, sitting on top of him with her legs on either side of his body. Her one hand held his hands in place above his head while the other mercilessly attacked his sides and stomach.

"This is what you get, Hawke! You don't fuck with Deacon Isles and get away with it!"

He laughed heartily and Isabela couldn't help but smile as she saw tears form at the corners of his eyes. How could she have not known Hawke was ticklish?

"Ah! Isabela! I'm sorry! Stop it! You're killing me! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" he choked out, cackling while he did so. She rather enjoyed being above him like this, being so in control of him.

She ceased her assault and let him catch his breath, though she kept his hands above his head. He lay there, gasping for air under her, cursing and apologising every so often. He looked _really_ sexy all out of breath and ruffled up, she thought. She looked hungrily into his eyes and, whether by the alcohol or her own will, she bent down slowly and pressed her lips up against his.

_Maker, _she thought_, he tastes so good._ She ran her tongue along his bottom lip. He tasted like chocolate and the Rivaini wine and something else she couldn't quite place.

Now Hawke and Isabela had kissed before. Plenty of times, actually. The pirate was free with her body, her mouth being no exception, and had given away kisses, both on the cheek and the lips, to her friends and lovers alike without so much as a second thought. Hawke, being her closest friend, had received more than anyone else. He didn't really mind it, though it was awkward at times, especially when she'd do it in front of his mother, or the Viscount, or at inappropriate places, such as the Chantry. With Sebastian watching. During a sermon.

But this kiss was different from any other he'd received from her. There was need, and craving, but a softness there that he didn't think many ever experienced.

His body stiffened under her, and she pulled back to look him in the eyes. They were oddly blank and unseeing.

No. He thought she was done with this. He thought they'd gotten past this.

"Isabela." It was a command. It was said softly, but she could tell. And there was no emotion in it.

She wordlessly released her grip on his hands and sat back, moving off of him. He lay in the same position for a moment before he sat up. They never took their eyes off one another.

She just didn't understand. How could he not want her? Did he not find her attractive? Had she irritated him somehow? What was _wrong_ with her?

"Hawke, I-" she started, her voice uncharacteristically frail. She was _determined _to get to the bottom of this. Right now.

"Isabela," he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration, looking away from her. "You make this so goddamned _hard_."

She paused. Had she heard him correctly?

He looked back to her, and she saw in his eyes a passion she had never seen before. It startled her, and butterflies flew around her stomach like she was a love-struck teen. It sickened her.

"Hawke, I don't understand. What's wrong? Why haven't you ever wanted to…" her voice trailed off. She was suddenly unable to finish her sentence.

He sighed again and dropped his hand from his neck. He hesitated a moment before he spoke, trying to decipher what he wanted to say.

"Isabela, you're not the most dedicated of lovers. You flip between men like a fish. I just – I don't think I could handle that." He looked away, deflated and seemingly embarrassed.

Oh. She understood now. It was simple, really.

Hawke was not one to willingly give away his body. He wanted to save it for someone special, and he wanted their relationship to be between the two of them, not to be tossed aside as the next attractive individual walked through the doors. It shocked her to an extent. Were there really men out there that thought of something other than immediate sex? Apparently so.

It was sweet, really. Any woman would be lucky to have him.

But didn't he just say she was making it hard for him? Didn't that mean he desired her? And then it hit her.

He was just as attracted to her as she was to him. But her flippant love life had hindered him from ever confessing it. He really _had_ gone all this time without sex. He had hidden his attraction and remained friends with her the past years, determined to let her do as she pleased, and watching, as the best friend, from the shadows.

What must it have been like for him to see her with all those men? To see her walk past him nearly every night with a different lover on her way up the stairs to her room in The Hanged Man?

She abruptly felt like a horrible person for unknowingly doing that to him. She looked over to him with sadness and guilt in her eyes. He was still not looking at her, but instead watching the noble couples spin and twirl together on the dancefloor below.

She honestly didn't know what to do. She obviously cared greatly for Hawke, and wished for nothing more than to see him happy. But at the same time, being denied for three years had really put her desire to see him naked near the top of her priority list.

She didn't know if she could do both.

Well, she didn't know if she could ever give Hawke a life or a future. Marriage, stability, children, family. She was simply not cut out for it. But would it really be that difficult for him to be her _only_ lover? Perhaps not.

She knew then what she wanted to do. She leaned over and put her hand softly on the side of his face. She rubbed her thumb around in circles, feeling the rough short stubble underneath. He turned to look at her, uncertainty in his eyes.

"Hawke," she said slowly. "I'm yours."

And she leaned in to kiss him again.

This time he didn't go rigid, or pull back, or turn away.

He melted into her kiss. It was soft, and affectionate, and the pirate could tell that her friend had fallen in love with her. Maker damn him and his ability to cover shit up. Honestly, how had she never seen it before now?

He moved one hand on her back and the other to the back of her head. She kept her hand on his cheek and had put her other one on the other side of his face.

Isabela ran her tongue along his bottom lip again, savouring his taste, and he parted his lips to allow her access.

He tasted her as well. It was of the wine and the spices in whatever had been in her evening meal.

Eventually the kiss became more heated, and Hawke buried his hand into her hair, and Isabela tangled her own into his. They had to part from each other, though. They could barely breathe. They took a moment and rested their foreheads on each other, their hot breath intermingling in the space between them. She tried something different, and trailed little kisses along his jaw and down his neck. He let out a small moan, and it took everything she had not to ravage him right then and there. No, she would be patient with him. It was the least she could do.

She breathed him in. He smelled of herbs and leather and whatever soap he had bathed with today. And there was that distinctly _Hawke_ smell that she couldn't quite place.

She let her hands wander from his face and they found their way to the bottom of his shirt, slipping under it. She slid her hands up his chest, marveling at how muscular he felt, despite his small stature. He moaned again when her hands glided over his nipples. Maker, this was going to be tough. And they'd barely even started.

"Off," she demanded roughly, and he released his grip on her, putting his arms in the air, allowing her to slide his chemise off with ease. She tossed it to the side without a second glance and leaned back for a moment, taking him in. Divines, he was gorgeous. His chest was riddled with the faded lines of old and new scars alike, but it didn't take away from him in the slightest.

He watched as she looked him up and down, a grin playing on his face.

He couldn't believe his luck. He had wanted Isabela for years now, but had denied himself her, not wanting to force her to change for him. He knew all too well how tiresome that was, and he had no desire for her to undergo what he had.

"Now you," he ordered huskily, and almost before he had finished saying it, the pirate had whipped her shirt off and threw it near his. He laughed and leaned forward to capture her mouth in his again.

She pushed back against his chest, though, and delicately traced the outlines of his scars across his stomach, his sides, his shoulders, his chest. He closed his eyes reluctantly but enjoyed the feel of her nimble fingers on his marred skin.

When she tired of this, she leaned into him again, placing kisses over his face. His hands roamed around her back, looking for the clasp to the piece of fabric that held up her chest. His hands were shaking but he finally managed it, and he pulled back as he watched it fall away from her. He let out a small gasp.

"Maker, Isabela. You're beautiful."

She had been called beautiful before by many men, but none of their words meant anything any more as soon as she heard Hawke say it. He really meant it.

She chuckled. "You're not too bad yourself, Hawke."

He smiled sheepishly before leaning toward her again. He stopped before he reached her, however, and a look of concern crossed his face.

"Um…" he paused, looking around at the night sky, the streets below, and the ball going on in the adjacent building. "Here?" he asked, barely above a whisper, and she had to laugh. He could be so adorable when he wasn't severing heads from the shoulders of bandits.

He took it as a yes, and she leaned in the rest of the way to meet him. It would be quite the story, she thought. Their first time together on a roof under the stars. Quite romantic, actually. Minus the largest party of the year going on practically directly beneath them.

She expected him to grab at her breasts, or fondle them, or do other, much more naughtier things to them. But he never did. The most he did was stroke a finger over one, and it was completely by accident.

His hands instead caressed her arms and her shoulders as he took his turn to kiss along her jaw and down her neckline, and that spot she _really_ liked between her jaw and her ear. He breathed her in, and she smelled of ale and the sea and something else just _Isabela_ that had no name.

She arched her head back for him and moaned a bit when he scraped his teeth along her ear. This did something to him, as he tightened his grip on her arms, and slowly pushed her back until she lay flat against the roof and he was above her.

The roof felt a bit rough against her back, but the contrast between the cool stones and her burning skin was more than worth it.

Up until now they had been gentle with each other. Well, more like she had been patient and he had been slowly guiding. But to see him on his hands and knees over her while she lay on her back, like she had imagined so many times before, caused her to lose what little patience remained.

She rolled her hips up to meet him, and she felt his growing erection through the fabric of his pants. He moaned again and bent down to kiss and nip and lick her neck. She couldn't wait any longer and reached an arm down, groping his member through his pants. He moaned even louder and ground down into her touch, bringing his body flush with hers.

They weight of him on top of her caused a rush of need so strong that she let go of him and started to unfasten the belt of his pants, breathing heavily.

He felt what she was trying to do and reached down, gently removing her hands from his belt. He would do this _properly_.

She was confused, and for a moment thought he had changed his mind and wanted to stop. Her fears quickly vanished, however, as he rose up to his knees and started sliding down her shorts with both hands. He looked up to her as if asking if this was ok. She smiled and he glanced back down, continuing his work. His hands were still shaking and he was clearly nervous, but she encouraged him with gentle words and touches.

She kicked her pants off once he moved them far enough down her legs, and he kneeled over her, looking down at her. He held nothing but affection in his eyes, so unlike the carnal glares of the other men. He looked back up into her eyes and smiled at her.

He fluttered his hands over the tanned skin of her stomach and hips, tracing random patterns and the outlines of scars, and she closed her eyes, reveling in the sensation. He soon added his mouth, and he planted small kisses and licks over her midriff. She almost gasped as his rough hand finally touched her core, continuing to make patterns.

She did gasp when he slid his thumb inside of her, and she nearly screamed when he rubbed it slowly back and forth.

She opened her eyes heavily, and looked at Hawke as he pleasured her. His brow was furrowed in concentration, and she realised it wasn't because of what he was doing, but rather what he _wasn't_ doing. He had a painful erection, she could tell, still caught in his pants, though he was determined to make her happy first.

She realised with a start that no other lover had ever taken her pleasure into consideration during sex. Except, perhaps, her old friend Zevran. But Hawke was different. She was truly touched.

"Hawke," she managed to breathe out. He looked up at her questioningly. She glanced down to his pants and he smiled, shaking his head.

What the Maker-? And then she found out.

He removed his thumb and bent down to her and kissed her there, and she gasped again. He smiled against her, and flicked his tongue out gingerly. She almost went over the edge.

He enjoyed drawing those little noises from her, knowing that it was him, and him alone, that caused them.

She was panting now and her eyes were heavy with lust and she needed him. Never before had she been so quickly brought to this point. Hawke was not the roughest or the most energetic partner. He wasn't the most adventurous nor the most skilled she'd had. So why had she yielded so soon?

"Hawke," she snarled, and this time he obeyed her.

He moved away from her and she sat up. He allowed her to fumble with his belt, and she tossed it to the side. She couldn't get if off fast enough. She hurriedly shimmied his pants over his hips and finally, _finally_, she saw what she had so wanted to the past three years.

Hawke wasn't big, but he wasn't small. He was perfect, actually. He finished removing his pants while she stared at him and his wonderful, beautiful, fully erect sexual organ.

He was scanning her face warily for any sort of confirmation. Truthfully, he had been a little nervous about this part. Isabela had been with many men, and had no doubt seen such a wide array of them over the years. He knew he wasn't large, and would be far from the most impressive specimen she'd seen. She smiled though, and reached out for it, and Hawke's anxiety disappeared.

He was already stiff from pleasuring her, so just a few quick pumps was all that was needed. Her calloused hands felt like heaven against his swollen, aching member. He moaned hungrily, and they looked up into each other's eyes, both seeing their desires mirrored in the other, both panting heavily.

She thought about pleasuring him as he had done to her, but he was so hard already, and she doubted he'd last more than ten seconds, especially with her skilled mouth. Not to be pretentious.

"Isabela," Hawke gutturally mumbled. A complete new surge of need pulsed through her as he spoke her name. "Are you sure you want this?"

It was barely a whisper, but she heard it. Again, she was taken aback. How could this man be so careful and caring and patient, and stand here on the brink, and then ask if she was ok with it? No one else _ever_ had.

She nodded and crushed her lips to his, tasting herself on him, and wrapped her arms around him.

He lowered her again, slowly, until her back met the cold stones once more, never letting her lips go. He kissed her again along the neck, and she could feel his erection against her thigh. They ran their hands along each other's bodies slowly but greedily.

After a while he pulled his mouth away from her. She opened her eyes in time to see him glance nervously towards her. She squeezed his arms lightly in encouragement, spreading her legs for him. She watched him guide himself over her, and a moment later, he was situated and had started pushing.

He slid into her easily, but they both still gasped as it happened. She held back a scream of pleasure as he filled her. He fit perfectly.

He was tempted to cry out at just the knowledge that he was here with her now, inside of her, and it felt so _right_.

Once he was inside, he kissed her again, and whispered into her ear, "Maker, Rivaini. You feel so _good_."

He pulled out slowly, then rolled his hips back, plunging into her again. Her eyes fluttered and she shuddered a bit.

She whispered into his ear "As do you, love." He smiled.

He continued thrusting slowly, up and down, and Isabela raised her hips up to meet him in near-perfect time. Her hands still ravaged Hawke's body, touching everywhere. His face, his neck, his back, his chest, his arms. Every part of him she could touch, she did.

They could both feel the heat pooling in their stomachs, and their speed increased slowly. It was never fast, however, and Isabela rather enjoyed the simplicity of it. She wanted more of him, though, all of him, and started to dig her fingernails into his skin. He didn't mind in the slightest.

His head was near her shoulder, and he was kissing her there, and as time wore on, he started biting her. Not hard enough to bleed, of course. But there would be a mark in the morning. She felt strangely pleased as the thought passed through her mind.

All coherent thoughts quickly turned to mush and the only thing they focused on was their pleasure and the feeling of the other moving with them.

He tried to warn her when he was close, and had started to pull out, but she grasped onto his arms tightly, telling him to stay.

She came with a shudder, calling him by his first name. He followed soon after, unable to resist her heat and pressure any longer. He let out a strangled moan and he called her name as well, and spilled himself inside of her.

They rode it out together, and after a moment he pulled out and flopped onto his back beside her.

They lay there for another moment staring up at the clear starry sky, panting and totally exhausted by their efforts, covered in sweat and wine and their combined body fluids. The sound of music and chatter from the ball came back into focus, as if what just happened was normal and warranted no need of concern. He eventually turned his head to the side to look at her, and whispered her name.

She turned her head as well, whispering back "Yeah?"

He smiled deviously and said "I thought I told you not to call me Coldin."

She laughed and playfully punched his shoulder. He lifted his arm up, inviting her to nestle closer. She scootched over to him and rested her head on his shoulder, still staring at the sky. He lowered his arm and absentmindedly caressed hers. The air was much cooler now, but their bodies kept each other warm.

The spoke not, simply enjoying the company of the other, and the feeling of being under the immense inky sky.

This was another little pleasure the pirate seldom took part in. Most of the men she slept with had no desire to remain by her afterwards. Even if they wanted to, she never liked any of them enough to _want_ to stay. But Hawke was her friend, and she enjoyed his company.

Was he still her friend after this? Were they lovers now? Would things be awkward between them? He was her best friend, her brother-in-arms, and she didn't think she could lose him. Not to this.

Just as Isabela was drifting near sleep, Hawke broke the silence.

"I love you," he said, almost inaudibly.

She tensed at his words. Damn. The night had been going so well.

"I just wanted you to know that. I always have."

When she didn't respond, he continued.

"I don't expect anything more from you, you know. Just that you don't go gallivanting off with every soul who walks into The Hanged Man." He smiled at his last words.

She remained silent, deep in thought.

He loved her. That was obvious. He said so himself. But he also didn't expect any more from her. Just to remain loyal to him. For his own sake.

Isabela never thought herself one to crave small touches and shows of affection. She hated it, in fact, when young couples held hands and whispered things into each other's ears. They were signs of infatuation, of love, and Isabela knew more than anyone that love wasn't worth it, and it always tied you down in the end, making you a slave.

And so she had run from love, and bedded many men and women, trying to fill some void she felt was missing. But the more sex she had, the emptier she became.

But tonight, Hawke had found her missing pieces, and showed her that love was ok, and that it was safe to get tied down, because the other person could set you free.

And here she was, lying with him, letting him caress her and hold her. Small touches and affections. Signs of Infatuation. Of love.

After a few moments of silence, Hawke looked over to her worriedly. Had he said the wrong thing?

"Isabela?" he asked tentatively.

There were unshed tears glistening in her eyes, but she blinked them back. _Get a hold of yourself, Rivaini._

"Hmm?" she asked, looking up at him.

His heart sank in his chest as he realised that no, _of course_ she didn't love him back. Isabela loved no one. It was stupid to even think that she'd want to stay with him. Her loyalties lay with none. And he'd gone and fucked up their friendship. She'd probably leave him for good after tonight.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by that. Forget I said anything." He shifted as if to lift himself up.

"Where are you going?" she asked rather harshly. He paused.

"I, uh… I'm sorry. For what I said earlier. It's fine."

She gave him a bewildered look. "Hawke, I told you I was yours. I meant it." She reached up and kissed him as he smiled.

Isabela couldn't do it yet. Too many years running from it, hiding from it, simulating aspects of it. She couldn't say it out loud. But deep down, she knew it was true. It might take her a while to admit it, and she'd probably need many similar nights with him, but she knew.

She loved Hawke just as fiercely as he loved her.


End file.
